dale bridges

HE-HE-HE. SNICKER-SNICKER. HA-HA-HA. Oh, excuse me. I didn’t hear you come in. GIGGLE-GIGGLE. You’ll have to forgive me. I’ve been reading this hilaaaarious humor writing by Dale Bridges. CHUCKLE-SNORT-HA-HA. This guy is a scream! He makes Woody Allen look like a slightly less funny version of Richard Nixon. YUCK-YUCK-YUCK-HE-HE. I have no idea what that means. HA-HA-HO-HO-HE-HE. Oh no, what’s happening now? GIGGLE-HA. It appears that the witty verbiage has caused me to display too much spontaneous mirth and my sides are actually splitting. HE-HE-HE. Must. Stop. Laughing. Or. I. Will. Die. CHUCKLE-CHUCKLE-HA. Now sides have officially split. HA-HA. Oh, God! The pain! The pain! HARDY-HAR-HAR-HAR. I think I can see my large intestine. HE-HE-SNORT-HA-CHUCKLE-GIGGLE-HO-HO-HO-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA…

A Letter to Willy Wonka Concerning the Outsourcing of Labor in His Chocolate Factory

by Dale Bridges

(Originally published in The Bullhorn)

A Letter To The Sex Toy That My Girlfriend Recently Bought For Me

by Dale Bridges

Dear Rockin’ Rabbit,

Yesterday, my girlfriend came to my apartment with a rectangular package swaddled in colorful wrapping paper.  She told me it was a present.  Since it was not my birthday and the wall calendar did not reveal any major holidays for which such a gift exchange might have been expected, I was suspicious.

Because of the shape of the package, I just assumed it was a book.  One of my favorite authors had recently published a new novel and I’d been waiting impatiently for it to come out on paperback.  Perhaps this says something about my nature and the reason that my girlfriend felt the need to purchase you in the first place, Mr. Rabbit.  In any case, I was shocked to tear open the paper and find a book-sized box with a picture of a young, heterosexual couple engaging in the act of copulation.  The woman’s head was bent backwards and her eyes were closed in a clear expression of carnal passion.  The man – a completely hairless specimen of the male gender – was looking up at the woman curiously, as though wondering what all the fuss was about.  The words on the box said, Rockin’ Rabbit: For The Pleasure That Only You & Your Lover Can Create.  I found this rather ironic, since clearly my lover and I could not create such pleasure, which was why I was standing in my living room holding an item produced by a company called Exotic Novelties in the first place.

Fortunately, my girlfriend and I were late for an engagement, so there was no time to test out my new present last night.  Just so you know, Mr. Rabbit, I have no problem with you or any of your people.  I’m as open-minded as the next person.  Live and let live, that’s my motto.  I have several friends who use sex toys and I have always supported their lifestyle.  I’ve even done some experimenting of my own.  You know, in college.  I’ve used French Ticklers on multiple occasions, and once, when I had consumed more than my fair share of wine coolers, I tried the Ultimate Beaver.  Maybe you know them.

After I got home, I opened the box and took you out.  I hope you are not offended by this but I have to say that I was taken aback by your appearance.  I did not expect you to look like an actual rabbit.  But there you were, with your blank rabbit eyes staring into nothingness and your long rabbit ears pointing up at me, as if in accusation.  You weren’t a large sex toy, which was a relief (since that seemed to indicate that my girlfriend was not concerned with size).  All told, you were probably about four inches long.  Your body was made of soft, pliable rubber and you had three, gaping holes in you, which I found rather macabre.  Also, I was a bit confused by all of the equipment that came in the box.  There were two remote control devices with long wires extending out of them that were both connected to items that I can only describe as small, metallic eggs.  (On the box, it actually calls these things “vibrating bullets”, which seems a tad violent for a product named after one of nature’s most benign creatures.)

Now, here’s where I became very disturbed.  According to the picture on the box, the user was expected to take these vibrating bullets and insert them into the holes in your head and buttocks.  Let me repeat that: I was supposed to put a bullet in your little rabbit head.  The hole that was in the middle of your body was for my…Well, I was supposed to…put…you know…it in there.  And as if that wasn’t enough, after I crammed a bullet through the aperture in your skull and committed bestiality, my girlfriend was then supposed to climb on top of the both of us.  The vibrating bullets were lined up in such a way that they came in contact with our respective, um, unmentionables, which, according to the box, created “clitoral, anal, or testicular stimulation.”

I was appalled, to say the very least.  Who knew my girlfriend was such a sex pervert?  Not I.

In any case, I want you to know that I will not permit this abomination to happen, Mr. Rabbit.  As soon as I find a proper brothel or porn store, I am going to release you back into the wild where you belong.  This indecency will not stand.

Sincerely,

Dale Bridges

….

A Letter To The Sex Toy That My Girlfriend Recently Bought For Me: #2

by Dale Bridges

Dear Rockin’ Rabbit,

Please disregard the letter that I sent you last week.

Your biggest fan,

Dale Bridges

….

Crazy like a FOX

by Dale Bridges

I’ve always had trouble falling asleep. I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe it’s because of all the caffeine I consume. Or the sugar. Or the cocaine. Or maybe it’s because of the troll that lives in my closet named Tum-Tum who likes to taunt me by playing Rod Stewart’s “If You Want My Body” on the acoustic guitar after sunset. Who knows? It’s a mystery.

Whatever the cause, the fact remains that I often lay awake late at night, staring at the inside of my eyelids. When this happens, I try to take my mind off of Tum-Tum’s incessant strumming by inventing new television shows for the FOX network. For some reason, this helps me relax, and I soon drift off into the dreamy world of unicorns, faeries and Sean Hannity. Here are some of the shows I created this week:

1) Bill O’Reilly Yells At A Baby: This is actually a show that I’ve been working on for a long time. Sometimes O’Reilly faces off in a political debate against a newborn baby, sometimes it’s a puppy, and sometimes it’s just a potted plant that happens to be leaning too far to the left. In any case, the basic format of the show is always the same. O’Reilly sits at his desk across from the baby/puppy/plant with a look of utter derision on his face. His hideous turkey neck pulses in anticipation and the horns on top of his balding, liver-spotted head begin to glow bright red. “So what’s your opinion on stem cell research?” O’Reilly asks. However, before the baby/puppy/plant can respond, he screams, “That’s ridiculous! What are you, French or something? I am very attractive and very smart! You are a communist!” The baby cries, the puppy whines, and the potted plant photosynthesizes (but in a very distraught manner). “Oh, stop being such a wuss!” O’Reilly says. Then he sheds his skin, unhinges his jaw, and swallows his opponent whole.

2) Former Celebrities Undergo Abject Humiliation So The Rest Of Us Can Feel Better About Ourselves: This is a reality show that features child celebrities who are now grown up and addicted to crystal meth, or sex, or doing crystal meth while having sex. Danny Bonaduce is on the show, as well as Rudy Huxtable and Punky Brewster and the boring youngest brother on Home Improvement that no one ever liked. The producers of FOX put them all together in an insanely expensive house and force them to perform various humiliating activities, such as vacuuming and making their own beds. If the show starts to get boring, Ted Turner murders one of the celebrities in their sleep (presumably the kid from Home Improvement) and blames it on one of the celebs. The remaining cast members hunt down the accused killer with crossbows, and then they write a hip-hop song about it.

3) Fat Guy & Attractive Lady: This is a sitcom that stars a dim-witted, over-weight man who is married to a beautiful, intelligent woman. The man works at some innocuous blue-collar job where he makes semi-clever jokes about his boss, while the woman pursues vague ambitions of working outside the home. The husband has a wacky friend who lives next door and sometimes causes trouble by convincing the husband to go bowling on his anniversary. Hijinx ensue. The wife’s parents also live nearby, and they come around to belittle the husband whenever the show starts to get dull. The jokes are only funny to residents of the Midwest, but that’s OK because they’re the only people who watch it. Other possible names for this show include: The King of Queens, The Honeymooners, According to Jim, The Flintstones, Grounded for Life or Still Standing.

4) Horny Rich Teenagers with Stupid Problems: This is a high school dramedy set in California, where all the teenagers look like adults and all the adults look like teenagers and all the breasts look like beach balls. Nothing remotely interesting ever happens on this show, but the audience pretends it’s interesting because, well, everyone is so darn beautiful. And as we all know, beautiful people are better than normal people, who are icky and pointless. Everyone on the show is obsessed with sex, but no one ever gets naked. Instead, the girls practice being pouty and anorexic, and the boys practice being not gay. There’s one James Dean wannabe from the wrong side of the tracks and a bitchy white girl who doesn’t fit in—they exist to remind the audience that poor people can be pretty, too. At the end of every show, some awful emo band sings a whiny song about how hard it is to be rich and narcissistic in America and then everyone converts to Scientology.

….

A Letter to the Coworker Who Constantly Sends Out Mass Forwards Through Inter-Office Email

by Dale Bridges

Originally published in the Journal of Modern Post 2004

Dear Pam From Accounting,

In answer to your question, yes, I too hate Mondays.  They are, as you say, quite “poopy.”  However, part of the reason I detest that particular day of the week is because I know that when I log onto my office computer in the morning, there will be a message from you urgently flashing in my in-box.  I am obliged to open this message because I am required to read all inter-office emails.  Like death and bad Kevin Costner movies, your cyberspace witticisms are unavoidable.  Inevitably, instead of finding information that might be related to my job in some way, your forwards feature bouncy cartoon characters or chimpanzees dressed as farmers who tell me to Buck Up, Buttercup! Only Four More Days Until Friday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mondays are already very difficult for me and I don’t need this extra stress.  I’m sure that you probably spend your weekends crocheting birdhouses or fashioning lawn ornaments from pine cones and dog feces, but I don’t.  I like to drink, Pam From Accounting.  I like to drink a lot.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but my guess is that you are a teetotaler.  You probably refrain from alcohol in all of its non-medicinal forms, preferring instead to “get high on life.”  It’s quite possible that you don’t even know what a hangover is.  For your edification, let me describe it to you.  A hangover occurs when you consume copious amounts of alcohol, causing your body to dry up like a prune in the Sahara.  When this happens, your head turns into a swollen hand grenade filled with razor blades and any small sound can cause it to explode in pain.  Therefore, although a video clip of a man dressed up in a chicken costume singing “I am Happy to be Cluck with You” at the top of his lungs is hilarious to you, it makes me want to go on eBay and start bidding on semi-automatic weapons.

I know you mean well and that you are simply trying to brighten my day with your down-home, Leave It to Beaver, good-clean-Christian-fun sense of humor, but I don’t think you realize that you are slowly pushing me over the edge.  I don’t know how you feel about your job, Pam From Accounting, but I hate mine.  It is dull and unpleasant and it forces me to talk to people who collect ceramic cats in their spare time.  I spend most of my day sitting in an office chair that was designed during the Spanish Inquisition and wondering how an omniscient, benevolent God could allow such a thing as Secret Santas to exist.  I feel as though my soul is slowly being faxed to Hell, and every time I read one of your messages, I die a little bit more inside.

I realize that it is going to be very hard for you to give up this obsession; therefore, I am willing to bargain with you.  Quid pro quo, as they say.  If you take me off of your mass email list, I will stop putting your various Precious Moments figurines down the front of my pants whenever you go to the break room.  What do you say?  Do we have a deal?

Sincerely,

Dale Bridges

….

Conversations Between Inanimate Objects in My Apartment

by Dale Bridges

COUCH: Damn, it’s Saturday. That means he’s going to sit on me in his underwear for twelve hours and eat Fritos.

TELEVISION: Yeah, and he’s gonna stare at me with those glassy, lifeless eyes. (Shivering) It’s so creepy. I can’t believe this guy is a functioning adult.

COUCH: He could at least put on some pants.

….

CELL PHONE: What are your plans for tonight?

BOTTLE OF RUM: I’m going to get him drunk and make him do something stupid. Any suggestions?

CELL PHONE: Yeah, let’s make him send embarrassing text messages to his ex-girlfriends with plenty of misspellings in them.

BOTTLE OF RUM: Perfect.

….

WAR AND PEACE: Does he ever read you?

MOBY-DICK: Are you kidding? Sometimes he takes me to coffee shops and pretends to read me, but I think he just wants to appear intellectual.

WAR AND PEACE: Yeah, I know what you mean. Every time he invites a girl over, he puts me on the night stand to try to impress her.

MOBY-DICK: Well, if he’s not reading you and he’s not reading me, what’s he doing with all his free time?

SKYMALL MAGAZINES: What are you guys talking about over there?

….

NEW TOOTHBRUSH: Oh, my God! What’s happening?

BATHROOM MIRROR: Stay calm. There’s no need to panic.

TOOTHBRUSH: What the hell! This guy just put a glob of minty crap on my head.

MIRROR: I know, I know. Try to relax. We’ll get through this together.

TOOTHBRUSH: Relax! Are you insane? It’s my first day out of the box, and some strange man is attacking me with fluoride… Wait. What’s he doing now?

MIRROR: Listen to me. Don’t freak out, OK. He’s going to put you in his mouth and move you up and down for a while.

TOOTHBRUSH: What the—!

MIRROR: Close your eyes. It’ll all be over soon…

(Approximately two minutes later.)

TOOTHBRUSH: That was terrible. (Gagging) You have no idea what it was like in there. I saw things… horrible things. Who eats chili for breakfast?

MIRROR: You did good, kid. It’s almost over.

TOOTHBRUSH: What do you mean, almost? Why is he holding me in front of his face like that? And what’s that god-awful noise coming out of his mouth?

MIRROR: That’s “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond. He’s pretending you’re a microphone. Every morning, he stands in front of me and sings this stupid song.

TOOTHBRUSH: Holy mother of God! Why is he dancing around like an idiot with no clothes on?

MIRROR: I have no idea. I think it’s some kind of demented tribal ritual.

TOOTHBRUSH: Can’t you do something?

MIRROR: I’ve tried to show him how ridiculous he looks, but it only seems to encourage him.

….

(Giggling and conspiratorial whispers.)

ALARM CLOCK: Shhhh… Be quiet, dude. You’ll totally wake him up.

WALL NEXT TO MY BED: I thought that was the point.

ALARM CLOCK: Yeah, but not yet.

(More giggling.)

ALARM CLOCK: OK, here’s what we’re gonna do. In 10 seconds, I’ll make a really loud noise, like a crazy, screaming baby. This will scare the bejeezus out of him, and when he jumps up, you whack him on the head.

WALL: We’ve been doing this every morning for the past ten years. Don’t you think he’ll catch on eventually?

ALARM CLOCK: Nah, he’s not very bright. Ready? Five… four… three… two…

….

A Letter to People with Political Bumper Stickers on Their Cars

by Dale Bridges

Dear Fellow Patriots,

Thank you for explaining the political climate of the country to me with such astute accuracy.  I don’t know what I would have done in the last election without your guidance pointing me in the right direction every day on the freeway.  Obviously, I never had the privilege of knowing any of the Founding Fathers, but I’ll bet they would be pleased as punch to see how their democratic dreams have come to fruition.  Yessir, if only Thomas Jefferson had lived in the twenty-first century, he could have reduced that unnecessarily long Declaration of Independence down to Honk if You Hate Britain! or King George III is Not MY President.

To the mother of three in the white SUV who cut me off yesterday on the interstate, I was not aware that Sarah Palin was your “homegirl.” Congratulations! That does seem like a good reason to put the entire free world in her hands.  I appreciate the clarification.  Also, I did not know that your child was an honor student at our local middle school.  Kudos!

To the John Lennon look-alike in the hybrid car who drives forty-five miles an hour in the fast lane, your Don’t Blame Me: I Voted for Kerry bumper sticker was very educational.  Don’t worry, I will find someone else to blame.  The rest of your car was extremely instructive, as well.  I will break for animals, I will hug a tree today, and I will make love, but I will not, under any circumstances, make war.  Thank you.

And, finally, to the man in the pickup who swerved across three lanes of traffic without his turn signal on, the Don’t Throw Away Your Vote: Vote Libertarian sticker on the back of your truck really changed my life.  I shudder to think of all the times that I cast my ballot for a political party that had a chance to win.  Never again!

Sincerely,

Dale Bridges

….

A conversation between Mario and Luigi on their first day at work

by Dale Bridges

Luigi: So what are we supposed to do?

Mario: You don’t know?

Luigi: No, I missed the training session. Are we going to fix someone’s plumbing?

Mario: Nothing like that. Here’s what’s going to happen: We’re going to sit here in total darkness until somebody turns on the lights. As soon as that happens, this really annoying music starts to play and one of us will have to run and jump over a small man shaped like a mushroom.

Luigi: What? Are you kidding me?

Mario: I’m completely serious. Actually, you don’t have to jump over him. You can also jump on top of his head.

Luigi: Is that even legal?

Mario: I don’t know. But you have to do it or else you’ll die.

Luigi: I’ll die!

Mario: Well, you might die or you might just get smaller. It’s hard to say.

Luigi: I can’t believe this. I have a wife and kids. I can’t be running around like some idiot, squashing people’s heads. I’ve got to get out of here. Who’s in charge?

Mario: A 12-year-old boy named Timmy.

Luigi: Timmy! My fate lies in the hands of some sixth grader named Timmy! I want to talk to my union representative.

Mario: No time for that now. Pay attention. If you run into the mushroom men you die, but if you run into a different kind of mushroom you get bigger.

Luigi: This is very confusing.

Mario: I know. That’s why there’s a training session. You might also have to swing on a vine or jump onto a series of small platforms that are suspended in the air, defying all laws of physics.

Luigi: C’mon, you’re pulling my leg, right? What’s the point of all this?

Mario: If you make it past the mushroom men and the flaming pits and turtle dudes, you might get the opportunity to rescue a Princess.

Luigi: A Princess! Now you’re talking. Is she hot? I bet she’s hot.

Mario: Actually, she sort of looks like an inbred Strawberry Shortcake.

Luigi: But at least the Princess is rich, right? I mean, there must be a huge monetary reward that will make all this pain and suffering worth it.

Mario: Actually, I don’t know for sure. She’s from someplace called the Mushroom Kingdom. I think it’s in Eastern Europe.

Luigi: No way. I’m not going to risk my life for some frumpy, impoverished aristocrat.

Mario: Too late. There’s the music. Run! Run!

The next day…

Luigi: Wow, yesterday was crazy. Did you see me jump on that turtle and then kick his shell? That was awesome.

Mario: Yeah, it was OK.

Luigi: OK! It was more than just OK. It was amazing. I felt alive for the first time in my life.

Mario: Good for you.

Luigi: What’s wrong?

Mario: Nothing.

Luigi: Are you sick?

Mario: No.

Luigi: Did you singe your mustache on one of those fireballs?

Mario: No. Can we just drop it?

Luigi: Don’t tell me you’re pissed off because I rescued the Princess.

Mario: No way. I didn’t want to rescue her anyway. She thinks she’s soooo cool just because she wears pink and has a tiara. Ooooh, look at me. I’m a stupid Princess in a stupid pink dress.

Luigi: C’mon, don’t be that way. I’m sure you’ll do better today.

Mario: Don’t patronize me.

Luigi: All right, man. Chill out… You know, it’s weird but I’m actually kind of looking forward to this. Yesterday was such a rush. Do you think I can beat my old time?

Mario: Whatever.

Luigi: Did you hear that? I think it’s the music. Here we go again! Mario?… Hey, where are the mushroom men?

Mario: Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. No mushroom men today. We’re racing cars.

Luigi: Cars!

Mario: Well, karts actually. Super-fast demon karts with no safety equipment.

Luigi: But I don’t know how to drive. I take the bus.

Mario: Oh my goodness, that’s right. I forgot about that. Well, good luck. See you at the finish line.

….

All content copyright © Dale Bridges